Pleasing Mr. Pepys

by Deborah Swift

  In the tiring house, a cramped and untidy closet stuffed with wigs and hats and posies of dead and decaying flowers, Mistress Williams leaned in to examine her reflection in a mirror, grimacing as if she did not like what she saw. She primped her hair, and then pulled out two stools. ‘Now, sit a moment and tell me this great mystery about your mother.’ She patted the other stool in a confiding way.

  ‘There’s not much to say.’ Deb was reluctant. She had not talked about her mother to anyone for so long. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the pots of rouge, the charcoal sticks and the ‘patches’ that littered the table.

  Mistress Williams leaned in closer. ‘I’m good with secrets, and you can trust me not to tell a single soul.’ She smiled and offered a little nod of encouragement. There was something about the way that she gave Deb her undivided attention that disarmed her. ‘Where is she now, your mother?’

  ‘She left us.’ Deb blurted. ‘I’ve not seen her for six years. Six years.’ She hesitated. ‘What kind of mother does that to her children?’

  ‘And you’ve had no word since?’

  ‘Nothing. We don’t know what became of her, but a servant said she might have come to London.’

  Mistress Williams was still fixing her with her intense gaze. ‘And now you’re here, will you try to find her?’

  Deb’s heart gave a little leap of hope. The picture. What could be the harm in Mistress Williams seeing it? She wouldn’t be able to tell anything about her from a portrait, and she might recognise her. ‘Wait.’ Deb brought out a little velvet pouch, and withdrawing the miniature, ran a thumb tenderly over the casing. ‘Her portrait. Father had it painted just after Hester was born. But he doesn’t know I have it. After she left us, he took all her portraits and threw them on the fire. Except this one; it was in the pocket of his winter breeches, so I took it before he could find it.’

  ‘What extraordinary behaviour,’ Mistress Williams said.

  Did she mean her, or her father? Deb wasn’t sure. ‘Please, don’t tell Mrs Pepys. It’s easier if I just tell everyone she’s dead. Of the smallpox. It’s what we always say.’ She opened the hinged lid and passed the miniature over.

  Mistress Williams glanced at it and then her eyes widened and locked on the image. She frowned and raised the picture closer to her eyes to examine it.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I just thought …’ Mistress Williams swallowed. ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’

  But Deb had seen a flash, something like recognition in Mistress Williams’s face, and she wasn’t going to let it pass. ‘Please, won’t you take another look,’ she said. ‘The maid said she came to London. She would be older now, of course.’

  Mistress Williams’s eyes rested briefly on the portrait again. ‘At first glance, she looks a little like someone I once knew,’ Mistress Williams said. ‘But portrait painters seldom achieve a good likeness. She has a fine face. How sad that you are estranged.’

  ‘Or perhaps we should be glad.’ Her voice was tight. Aunt Beth had forbidden her to talk about it. Mama had shamed Father, she said. The words Deb had been holding back for so long burst out. ‘My aunt said that Mama deserved to fry in hell. Those were her very words. “Sin itself” she called her. But it seemed so unlike Mama … and I couldn’t believe she’d just leave us all …’ Deb couldn’t finish. She took a deep breath to keep her emotion in check. ‘Beg pardon, I forget myself. I shouldn’t have spoken about her in that way. I did not mean to be so forward.’

  Mistress Williams leaned in towards her. ‘Not at all. It is good to unburden the heart.’

  Deb placed her palms to her cheeks to cool them. What on earth had made her say these things to Mistress Williams? It was exactly what Aunt Beth had warned her against.

  ‘This servant you speak of, the one who said she’d come to the city, she could give you no more information?’

  ‘Agnes. Yes, all she could tell me was that Mama took seat on a stagecoach to London.’ Deb tried to calm herself, as Mistress Williams shut the miniature with a click and placed it on the table. ‘But I think it’s because Mama was going to have another baby. Hester and I hoped for a girl, because we have three brothers. But then … she just left in the night. Father got rid of all the staff the day after Mama went. Can you imagine that? Staff who’d been with us for years.’

  ‘What a frightful experience.’ Mrs Williams shook her head.

  ‘He laid off every single one, anyone who knew her. He wouldn’t talk. Just sold the house, sent us away …’ Oh no. She’d done it again. Mistress Williams must be some kind of witch to get her to talk this way. What must she think of her? Her eyes pricked, but Deb blinked back the tears. She shut her mouth, determined she wouldn’t appear a fool.

  Mistress Williams patted her arm. ‘Don’t fret. Here, take this.’ She opened her bag and pushed a handkerchief in Deb’s direction. When Deb pressed it to her nose, it smelled of camphor and made her gulp for breath.

  ‘There now, blow hard.’ Mistress Williams was looking at Deb very intently. It was disconcerting to be listened to like that. Aunt Beth had never listened to her, and nobody asked her questions in the Pepyses’ house; it was as if they were all too busy making their own noise to be interested in anyone else’s.

  ‘A puzzle then,’ Mistress Williams said.

  ‘Mama told Agnes to tell us she’d write, and she was going … to “the Greek”. But she never did write. Not a single word. I’ve looked after my little sister Hester all these years …’ Her voice wobbled. She took control of herself. ‘And as for “the Greek”, Hester and I have chewed over it for years, racking our thoughts as to who she meant, but we couldn’t bring anyone to mind. I don’t think she knew any Greeks, or if she did, it was someone she wanted to keep a secret. Besides, Agnes was insistent it was the London coach.’

  ‘Did you try the King’s Post Office?’

  ‘Yes. They could find no address for her.’

  ‘Then if you want to find her, you must put a notice by St Paul’s,’ Mistress Williams said. ‘People still meet there despite the fire. There’s a new board there for hiring and firing, under a makeshift cover, and I believe there is also a noticeboard for missing persons.’

  ‘I don’t want to find her.’ Deb clutched the kerchief in her fist. At the same time, the thought came that she did. She would give anything to see her again. St Paul’s Church. Why had she not thought of that? But the idea terrified her. If it came to it, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to see her mother again. After all, she could have written, couldn’t she? All these years, and not a word.

  Mistress Williams was watching her. Deb had the impression she could see into her thoughts. She blew her nose again to cover her confusion.

  ‘Many people still go by the church. I understand you can write?’ Mistress Williams asked.

  ‘A notice, you mean?’

  ‘Well, it would certainly be a start.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a good idea, it’s just …’ She blew her nose. ‘Mrs Pepys might not approve of callers, and my mother might not be … oh dear. I’m sorry about your handkerchief, Mistress Williams. I’ll wash it and—’

  ‘Keep it.’

  Deb pushed the scrap of linen inside her bodice. ‘You see, Mrs Pepys thinks my mother died of the smallpox.’

  ‘And don’t call me Mistress Williams, it offends me – makes me feel about sixty. Call me Abigail.’ She took hold of the material of Deb’s sleeve with her hand and tugged it playfully. She raised a finely plucked eyebrow. ‘Now, take cheer, now you have told me everything, we are going to be great friends, I can feel it. Wait there.’

  Abigail swept away down the corridor and returned with a large piece of parchment, quill and ink. She smoothed it out on the table before them, handed Deb the quill.

  ‘Missing,’ dictated Abigail.

  It would be too awkward to refuse such a grand lady, so Deb wrote out the notice to Abigail’s instructions. When she turned, Abigail was watching
her with a purposeful expression which immediately transformed to dimpled smiles. ‘What a nice, neat hand. And by the way, if you don’t want Mr and Mrs Pepys to know about this, let us use my address on the notice.’

  ‘But I don’t know how I’ll be able to repay you, it’s so kind.’

  ‘Not at all. That is what friends are for, is it not – to help each other with small favours?’ Abigail tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘Now, here is a chit with my address. My own personal address, not my Lord Bruncker’s. Copy it down carefully and keep it safe. As soon as I hear anything at all, I’ll send for you. And we need say nothing to Elisabeth, need we? It can be our little secret. Now. Leave me the notice and I’ll put it up for you.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’ Deb rolled it up. ‘I’d like to see these boards you talk of.’

  Abigail frowned and took hold of the parchment. ‘But I pass it every day.’

  ‘Still, I’d like to do it myself.’ Deb did not let go.

  There was a moment while they both tugged, then Abigail released it. ‘Very well. I would have saved you the trouble, that’s all.’

  But Deb could tell Abigail was displeased, just the same.

  While Deb was out, Elisabeth was restless. It was good to be back in familiar surroundings, but at the same time it made her uneasy. In London, Sam would find excuses to be up to his old tricks.

  This morning she’d caught Sam looking at Deb again. It gave her a suffocating feeling in her chest. After that, she could not stop watching them: Deb’s slim graceful wrists as she passed Sam his letters, her pale smooth complexion, and the way she looked puzzled when Sam regaled her with rumbustious tales of court life.

  Elisabeth still had not unpacked from the trip to Brampton, so she shook out her day dresses from the trunk and brushed out the creases. Should she fetch Jane? No. She was busy laundering the linens. Deb should deal with them really, but she didn’t like to ask her, not in front of Sam. It would feel like a criticism.

  She didn’t want to seem churlish, even though Deb was young and pretty. Elisabeth glared at the array of gowns on the bed, pummelled at a limp taffeta skirt. It would not do. She would have to have new – something bolder, younger. Something to take Sam’s attention.

  They should never have taken Deb to Brampton. That’s where it all started. In fact, Elisabeth hadn’t wanted to go at all, but Sam had insisted on going in order to dig up his gold. Like a dutiful wife, she’d hidden it for him in the grounds when he’d been convinced the Dutch were about to storm London, right after England lost the sea battle in the Medway.

  Stupid man. It was all a false alarm – the threatened invasion hadn’t happened. But could he leave it be? No. He feared someone else at Brampton might come upon his precious hoard of gold by chance. He kept her awake at nights fidgeting and worrying about it, so he’d insisted on them all going to get it back, even Deb Willet.

  Or especially Deb Willet.

  Elisabeth went over to the fire and stood the iron on the trivet to heat. It was a long time since she’d ironed anything herself, but she was glad of the excuse to do it. The task might occupy her and take her thoughts off Sam. She smoothed a felt cloth over the side table.

  Lord, what a fuss he was in when she could not lay hands on his hoard! Of course, the land had changed in all these months, and it was as dark as tar and every sod of turf looked the same. So was it surprising she couldn’t point out the place right away? But all through their argument Deb Willet was looking on, supercilious, exchanging glances with Sam, as though Elisabeth was stupid not to remember where it was buried.

  Elisabeth had never wanted to kick someone so much in her life.

  The worm of jealousy would not lie still. Elisabeth ran the iron over a satin petticoat and replayed their return journey from Brampton in her mind. It had made her fit to boil, the way Sam insisted on seating himself next to Deb.

  ‘Sit here,’ she’d said to Deb, patting the seat next to her.

  ‘No, she’s better next to me. Otherwise her skirts will be over the bags, and I need to keep an eye on them,’ Sam said.

  Bags. They’d nothing to do with it. She saw Sam let himself fall ‘accidentally’ against Deb when the carriage jolted round a corner. Elisabeth fixed him with a stony stare. He saw her pointed look, smiled back sheepishly and stopped leaning so much.

  She wanted to wipe that smirk from his good-for-nothing chops. Did he have any idea, she wondered, just how much she saw?

  A smell of scorching. Elisabeth looked down. A wisp of smoke curled from under the iron. She pulled the thing away to reveal a triangular brown scorch mark right in the middle of her favourite petticoat. She let out a groan of outrage and threw the iron across the room, where it clanged against the fender.

  Deb Willet. She’d made her do that. She shouldn’t have to do these menial tasks. It was all Deb’s fault.

  Then she flopped into a chair, head in her hands. What was she doing, hiding from her maid and ironing in her bedchamber?

  I do not want to be like this, she thought to herself. Where had she got lost? Where was the bonny, bright young thing she used to be? Sam looked past her now as if she were invisible, his gaze smitten by Deb.

  Devil take him.

  She refused to fade away. She’d make a fuss until he gave her the coin for a new petticoat, and a new pelisse too, and expense be damned. She’d force him to notice her, if it was the last thing she did.

  Deb could not sleep. She imagined the lions in the Tower, prowling restlessly in their cages, their guttural growls to be fed. The visit to Abigail Williams had disturbed her. Why would Lord Bruncker’s well-to-do lady want to make a friend of her, a mere lady’s maid? Yet it was a relief to have someone to confide in. She’d nursed the grievance so long, it had felt like a part of her, and Hester had never really understood. She missed Hester more than ever. She had gone to put up the notice, for Hester’s sake. In Hester’s mind her mother had become half-mother, half-saint, and no matter how much Deb warned her otherwise, Hester would not brook the idea that her mother might be anything less.

  Strange, the way Abigail had looked at Mama’s portrait as if she knew her. And talking of Mama had brought it all back, reminded her of that ever-present hollow in her chest. She took out the miniature again and after lighting a taper, laid it on her lap, though she didn’t really need to look at it. Mama’s face was engraved on her memory as if the artist had placed his brushstrokes there, instead of on the ivory. She took out the picture whenever she wanted to remind herself that she would never, ever be as cruel as her.

  It was deliberate, this act of remembering. Hester’s tear-stained cheeks, the moment when Deb had to tell her that her mama was gone, and Hester had to be brave, and it never failed. The old anger rose up in her, dark and bitter as sloes. She would never forgive Mama for what she had done to Hester. To them all. Deb threw the portrait hard at the wall.

  ‘I hate you,’ she whispered. ‘You betrayed us. I never want to see you again.’

  But she woke at first light and was seized by a panic that the picture might be broken. And that her words had been some sort of curse. She scrambled out of bed and picked up the portrait again, hugged it to her heart until the metal case dug a pain in her breastbone.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS SUNDAY, AND curate-in-training Jeremiah Wells had spent the morning feeding the poor of his master’s parish in dismal rain, a daunting task since the fire had made homeless men of so many. He’d had to brave a few more snapping dogs, something he was used to in his profession.

  The poorer you were, the more dangerous your dog, he thought. Still, at least today nobody shouted at him – not like that young woman a few weeks ago. She’d stuck in his memory, partly because she was exceedingly pretty, but also because she’d yelled at him with more strength than he thought such a delicate-looking girl possessed. And it had given him great satisfaction the way she flushed scarlet when she realised she’d been shouting at the wrong man. />
  Jem buttered a tranche of bread and lay a nice fat slice of cheese onto it, wondering what had happened to Bart, his younger brother, who shared his lodgings. He was late for supper, as usual.

  The thought came too soon, for, as the bread was halfway to Jem’s mouth, the door burst open. Bart and his sailor friends clattered in, with their muddy boots, clanking swords, and a welter of dripping hats. So much for his quiet supper and night of study. Bart’s friends had grown rowdier these last months, and they seemed to move as a great rabble –just like a pack of dogs, he thought ruefully.

  ‘We need a favour,’ Bart said, as he and his friends crowded round the table, dripping onto Jem’s books. ‘We’ve reached the end of our patience. These men were all crew on the Forester too, and not one of us has been paid a single penny. Londoners sleep safe in their beds because of us, yet all they gave us was these blasted tickets.’ He held out a damp, well-thumbed note and shook it in Jem’s face. ‘Look! That’s not proper payment, is it?’

  ‘What sort of favour?’ Jem asked, moving his books to a dry spot.

  ‘These tickets won’t feed us,’ said Bolton, a cadaverous man in a ragged jerkin, who was looming over him.

  ‘He’s right,’ Bart said. ‘The danger from the Dutch is past. The King’s got his blasted treaty signed, so now he’s wanting to forget all about us. He’s trying to weasel out of paying at all. Now, I remember Crawley introduced you to Mr Pepys from the Navy Board. Have a talk with Pepys, get him to reason with the King. You’re a churchman, they’ll listen to you.’

  ‘Mr Pepys? But I’ve only met him once!’

  ‘You know him well enough to get you through the door.’ Bart put on his persuasive face.

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not—’

  ‘Mr Wells, my wife hasn’t had a decent meal in three days.’ Bolton, who had had his eyes fixed on Jem’s bread, leaned in to him, took off his cap, shook the drips off it, his eyes soulful. ‘She feeds the children first. I can’t even afford to give her a scrap of ship’s biscuit. Please, won’t you try? We fought for our country, not like those filthy turncoats who went over to the Dutch.’